


Mismatched

by PUNIFA



Series: The Lord and the Tramp [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, TEENMYSTRADEVERSE, mystrade, or something gosh i need to name this verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/pseuds/PUNIFA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's friends ask about Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mismatched

Greg’s friends asked about Mycroft.

Of course, they didn’t call him Mycroft; he was “that posh pouf with the nice car.”

“What’s his deal, hm?” Nick jabbed Greg in the side with his elbow, teeth bared in an impish grin. “Learning you how to tell a salad fork from a dinner one? Like a proper pansy?”

Greg rolled his eyes and jabbed Nick right back. “Shut up, s’nothing like that. I almost failed out last year. Mum wanted me to have a tutor and he offered without charging.” Eyebrows raised all around and there was the sharp sound of a wolf-whistle.

“Someone’s got it bad for you, mate!” Everyone cackled and began poking at Greg from all directions, tossing jeers at him that however playful began to wear at his patience.

“What’s his name, huh?”

“He try to kiss you yet? You _let_ ‘im?”

Greg jerked away from their reaching hands, crossing his arms tight across his chest – but that position felt too defensive, so he let his arms fall to his sides, though his fingers curled into fists. He leveled the group with a narrow eyed stare and after a few lingering sniggers they fell silent.

“That’s disgusting.”

Nick’s eyes widened and he raised his hands, palms facing out and hovering almost protectively over his chest – the look in Greg’s eyes was a rare one, and arguably quite dangerous.

“Woah, sorry – we were just pissing about. If he’s your friend or somethin’, then-”

“He’s not.” His voice didn’t waver and he almost convinced himself with those two words – but then he thought about the rose drying out in his bedroom and felt guilty. But no way in hell could he mention _that_ , or allow his face to go soft. He made himself laugh – clipped, perhaps a bit too strained to be entirely believable. “He’s just some snobbish tutor that my mum likes. At least this way I’ll actually make it somewhere with my life, unlike you lot.”

Smiles slowly eased themselves onto his friends’ faces as they relaxed. “What, gonna give us a lecture now?”

With that the ice cracked and chipped mostly away, and for the rest of the night Greg managed to inebriate himself with music and cheap beer.

 

 

 

When Greg finally got home, taking so long trying to be cautious with the lock that he ended up making a racket instead, his head was buzzing with phantom decibels of noise and from just a bit too much beer, but mostly from persistent thoughts about Mycroft Holmes.

He padded barefoot across the floor and into his bedroom, then glanced at his feet as he stepped onto his carpet. He’d lost his shoes. His mother would be furious and would make him stay in for the weekend again, which would probably mean an extra studying session.

Would he mind that, though?

If he didn’t that meant that he and Mycroft were friends, right?

He dragged his fingers through his sweat-matted hair and stumbled towards the mirror on his closet, frowning deeply. He was finally getting to the point where he needed to shave, the light peppering of stubble over his jaw adding to his particularly grungy look that night. Mycroft’s skin was smooth as a baby’s and he was a year older. In fact, everything about him was smooth, the absolute reverse of Greg.

Greg wrinkled his nose and flattened his hand in his hair, attempting to even it out, smooth it like Mycroft’s, but the reflection that greeted him had him laughing so hard that he wobbled and slumped to the floor.

They didn’t match. Not at all. You couldn’t pair grunge off with polished – it’d just end up getting tarnished. So maybe they weren’t friends, then. Even if Mycroft was helping him pass his classes for free and gave him (his mother) roses.

They could be, though, maybe, he thought as he slumped towards his bed, shedding half of his clothes before giving up and sliding under the covers. Maybe it was alright if things got a little bit tarnished, or just a touch cleaner. He nodded vaguely before consciousness dragged itself away.


End file.
